by Ryan Schow
“You’d better hope so,” he says as he hangs up.
“Prick,” I grumble as I slide the phone in my back pocket.
Now for the douchebag triumvirate. With the pop gun ready to roll, witnesses that may or may not exist who won’t care what I’m doing or not going to do because the world is burning, I approach the boys. As enraged as I am, I can’t do this. I can’t just kill a bunch of unarmed kids no matter what they did. Murder is murder and I’ve already got enough blood on my hands. Besides, Brooklyn asked me to hurt them, not kill them.
“Freddie B, you wet fart, give me your right hand,” I tell him, much happier with my decision.
“It’s tied to the left one,” he says, calm.
“Well alright then,” I say, feigning ignorance. I pull up his hands, put a bullet through the center of both. He starts screaming. Leaning into his ear, over the wailing that’s screeching like death out of his mouth, I say, “You won’t ever put your hands where they don’t belong again without first thinking you got what you deserved.”
“Left hand Marcello!” I bark, heading to the next boy.
He puts both hands up, in spite of his fears, and I see the little yellow stain radiating out from his right knee.
He pissed himself.
Good.
I clip the zip-tie and he drops the right hand. I put a bullet through his ring finger; the digit tumbles to the ground before him. Nothing says you’re serious about payback like taking body parts.
The shrieking that comes from his mouth is not exactly music to my ears. I’m wondering what it was like hearing Brooklyn scream. Did they enjoy it? Did they laugh? Did they get off on her fear, her pain, her humiliation?
“Good luck getting a wedding ring on that stump, little man.”
My ringing phone interrupts me. It’s Brooklyn. In that moment I want to chuck the phone into the lagoon and be done with it, but I can’t. I hit the “ignore” button, slide the phone back in my pocket and start to say something to Eric. Before I can even get a word out, the damn phone is vibrating again.
“Saved by the bell, Eric,” I mumble. Adeline’s number appears in the caller ID box.
Oh, God…Adeline.
The woman who stomped my heart into the dirt. The woman who found another man to fill the cold side of our bed. I answer the phone and in a lethally calm voice, I say, “Are you okay?”
Behind me, Marcello and Freddie are howling in various states of pain, which will soon be shock, and Eric is pleading not to be shot in his hands. He’s blubbering through a fat-lipped lisp and it’s making him sound like a total spastic nerve bag.
“I’m fine,” she says. “What’s going on there? Who’s that screaming?”
“Are you or the kids hurt?”
“No.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, hit “end,” then change the ring volume settings to “silent.” To Eric, I say, “It’s your turn, you twisted pervert. Give me your hands.”
“No, no, no,” he sobs, spittle and snot coming out of his face. “Pleath don’t thoot my handth!”
I pull the kid’s phone from my back pocket, flip it in his face and say, “How many people did you send these pics to?”
“No one, I thwear!”
Holding the phone right by his ear, I say, “The last thing you’ll ever hear in this ear is the sound of your pornographic art taking a bullet. But the last thing I want you to remember hearing is the tortured sound of my daughter saying ‘no’ over and over again.”
And with that I pull the trigger, blasting the phone to all hell.
He cries out and dips his head away from the gun, clutching his ear, wailing like he’s just gone deaf. In that ear, it’s entirely possible. I pace around the crying, beaten boys, glad I didn’t kill them, satisfied justice has been done.
And that’s when I see the drone racing low and blazing like fiery hell up W. Madison heading right for me. My entire body tenses and I freeze for the smallest moment.
Muzzle flash shows me two flickering orange blossoms of fire; bits of dirt and grass start jumping in front of me. I dive out of the line of fire with no time to spare, but the gunfire eats up Freddie B and Marcello, speckling the left side of me from feet to face with blood spatter.
When I finally manage to look up, I see Eric has jumped up and run away while the two boys before me—these tormentors of girls, these future rapists—have been Swiss-cheesed to death.
Both boys are face-down ragged messes. What the hell kind of rounds can do that kind of damage?
My head is now looking every which way but down. I don’t see anyone, or anything. Apparently only morons like me are out in the middle of this! I cut the zip-ties from the boys’ bodies and pocket the scraps. It only takes me a moment to fish Eric’s sim card from the broken iPhone and stomp on what’s left of it. I head back to the car, back it down to the water line, then empty the three bodies into the lagoon like there’s no time to spare.
Back in the ‘Cuda, I fire up the burly 426 and head back to W. Madison, not sure if I should go to the DEA meetup, over to Paco Loco’s to prepare for cartel warfare, or home to see about Adeline, Brooklyn and Orlando. Normally this would be an easy choice, but with Adeline being the way she’s being, and the tension of everything unfolding the way it is, honestly, I’m not anxious to see her. When I’ve distanced myself far enough away from the crime scene, I call Brooklyn. She answers right away.
“Fiyero?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Did you…do that thing?”
“It’s all done.”
“And did you find a permanent solution for them?”
“One was found for me,” I admit.
“Because if you did that,” she says, “I will never think less of you.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
There’s a bunch of noise in the background, so much so that I can hardly hear her over the purple beast’s grumbling engine. I pull over to the side of the road, shut off the car and stick a finger in my ear.
She says, “Girls started talking after what you did this morning. They’re saying these guys did things to a lot of girls. They raped Martha Cunningham. That girl who killed herself a few years back? Now it makes sense why she did what she did.”
“You sure about that? You’re not just adding fuel to the bonfire?”
“I’m sure.”
What else am I supposed to say?
“I know you’re beating yourself up for not protecting me,” Brooklyn says, “but no one would do what you just did, so thank you. And I love you.”
“I love you, too. Now listen to me, B. You have to get home and get in the center of the house. You and your mother need to find the closet most insulated from the outside of the house. Pull Orlando’s mattress in there with you, stand it against the wall nearest the outer structure of the house. And get water. A bucket and some bottles, just in case.”
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“World War Three, I think. Promise me you’ll head straight home.”
“I promise.”
“Now hang up with me, call your mother and tell her what you’re doing. No jaw-jacking with your friends either. This is serious. People are dead everywhere.”
“The teachers are gathering us up now,” she says.
“Go home, Brooklyn! You hear me?”
“Yeah, I do. But you’re going to have to get me out of whatever mess I’m going to get into with the school when they can’t find me.”
“I’ll handle it. Now go.”
There’s a beeping on my phone. I pull the screen back, see it’s Xavier again.
“I have to take this call. Just remember, you promised.”
“I will.”
I click over, changing lines.
“Xavier,” I say.
“You on your way?” he says, anxious, irate, scared.
“Heading there now,” I say, my mind made up.
Sorry Paco Loco.
“Good,” he says, sounding relieved. “Be careful.”
“Will do.”
I hang up, crank the engine, spin the wheel and smash the gas. Near West Side is not that far from here, and apparently the Chicago Office of Emergency Management building across from Skinner Park is still standing. But is it really that smart going into a building when all the buildings seem to be targets? Then again, the road is littered with shot up cars and dead people, so maybe I should have headed back home.
“You’re so stupid,” I say to myself.
Most of the Chicago DEA is apparently dead, the cartel I’ve infiltrated needs me to help them start a drug war in the middle of the worst attack Chicago has ever seen, and every single inch of this city is a potential kill zone, so with that, I keep my head low, my eyes peeled, and my foot on the gas.
Somewhere along the way, thinking this thing is going to be bad, I make the call I’ve never made, not since after the family…incident. I call my brother Roque in Sacramento.
The phone rings through. A voice answers. Roque.
“Rock,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like me waiting for the punches to fly. The line goes dead.
I pull over, send a quick text: PICK UP MORON.
I dial again.
He picks up, then hangs up.
I hit redial again, cursing, thinking this is no time to be a baby.
“What, Fiyero?”
“We’re under attack you freaking jerk.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you watch the news?”
“Civilized people don’t watch that crap anymore.”
“Text me your address, just in case.”
“I’m not at a permanent home, Fire. I got property. A fixer-upper on acreage in Loomis just outside Sac.”
“Just text me directions.”
“You’re not invited,” he says, cold, “so why would I send you directions?”
I start the ‘Cuda back up, rev the gas, put the car in gear and charge into the hell of this city so damn pissed off that we’re even having this discussion.
“Rock, it’s been two years and we’re the only family we have left. I don’t blame you for what happened. Jesus man, let it go already!”
“You have Adeline, Brooklyn and Orlando.”
“You know what I mean. Blood family. That has to stand for something.”
There’s a long silence, then: “You really under attack?”
“Check the news.”
“I told you, I don’t watch that garbage.”
“Yeah, well start! And then text me directions. I’m not promising I’ll head out your way, but this thing isn’t letting up and people are dying en masse. The whole city’s a hot zone.”
“Just head here, then. I’ll text you my address and directions.”
“Can’t just yet. The Sinaloa’s are starting a war in the middle of all of this. I’m pretty sure we’re about to run hits on Guerreros Unidos and Los Rojos, and then with what’s left over, we’re going to take down See-Jing.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. So if I’m not dead in the next eighteen hours, I may need to leave town.”
“What’s the DEA say?”
“Most of them are dead,” I tell him. “The building was hit, dropped onto the Post Office, spilled out everywhere from what Xavier says. It’s a mess, man.”
“So you’re going to just…what? Go in with them? Fight this drug war like it’s your own?”
“It is my war. This is my city, and there’s so much cover fire and so much damage, this is the chance we never thought we’d get to clear the map of these cockroaches.”
“You always were the—”
“Crazy one?”
“The stupid one,” he says. “Both you and Isadoro.”
“Don’t say his name.”
A long sigh, then: “Look for my text.”
The next thing I know, the line has gone dead.
Chapter Twelve
Isadoro’s short hair and freshly trimmed beard left his face and the back of his neck feeling cold. At least he felt different. Almost unrecognizable. He told himself not to watch Eliana too closely because even though he looked nothing like he did the night before, she was not a stupid woman. Who knew how perceptive she was? Each time he looked her way, however, she was looking down, seeing nothing, or perhaps seeing everything.
The woman was a survivor. She was also quite competent.
“So we have a change of plans,” Héctor announced to the group at the staging grounds. The entire group remained silent, their attention rapt. “You may or may not of heard, but there was a drone strike on America and Mexico along the border walls last night. Thousands of casualties. Although this is bad news for the families of the dead, this is very good news for us in terms of crossing.”
Isadoro shifted on his feet, that sick feeling worming through his gut again. They were about to cross the border blind. What kind of chaos were they walking in to? He swallowed hard, his eyes on Héctor and his pockmarked face. This was an unscrupulous man with more concern for his own welfare than the lives of those under his charge. Ice turned and spat. Not out of disgust, but because the smoky stench in the air of things still burning left his mouth dry, his throat itchy. Looking past Héctor, he frowned at the pall of smoke now hanging over parts of the city.
“What does that mean?” one woman with a child tucked under her arm said.
“It means we do not need to fear the border guards the same way we used to just yesterday. Crossing the border today does not present the same risks, however, in some ways, I’m told it can be worse.”
“Worse how?” Jose asked. His wife stood by his side, holding her daughter’s hand.
“Worse if the Americans come to survey the damage.”
“Will they really care about a group of migrants against the deaths of thousands?” Eliana asked. It was a fair question.
“Maybe not,” Héctor replied.
“Or maybe they will think we did this?” a woman said. This was the woman Ice was supposed to kill. Her and Jose. Their daughter was the child Héctor said Ice could use as a means of protection against detainment at the border.
Killing parents at the border to use the kids in America was not an uncommon practice, unfortunately. Still, the idea of using such a diabolical plan as a way back into America left him swallowing his disgust. He had no intention of killing either parent. If forced, he’d let them live and still pay Héctor his money. All he wanted was to get back home to Chicago, but it didn’t hurt that he might be able to somehow make that trip with Eliana.
Admittedly, the plan was loose and chock-full of holes.
In response to the woman’s question, Héctor shrugged his shoulders and said, “At this point, we are dealing with a number of unknowns. But I am your guide and we will get you safely across the border. And if the Americans are there, trust me when I tell you they are not stupid enough to think that a small group of poor migrants attacked thousands of people.”
“Where are we crossing at?” Eliana asked, ignoring the subtle jab at the intelligence of the woman.
Héctor paused, eyeing her with either disregard or malice, then he said, “We will cross through El Chamizal de Juarez.”
“The federal park?” Ice asked, astounded. He used a particularly heavy accent to disguise his voice from Eliana, but things being what they were, he wondered how long he should keep up the ruse. “Right next door to Bridge of the Americas and Hwy 45?”
“You know the area,” Héctor said sarcastically, turning to look at him. “Congratulations.”
“We’ll be out in the open next to a not-so-small point of entry,” Ice said, purposefully not looking at Eliana.
“There are enough trees and people to give us the cover we need. Besides, we have scouts on the ground right now.”
“And what do they say?” Eliana asked, not bothering to hide her eyes anymore, but not giving Ice any extra attention.
“Many things,” Héctor replied, being cryptic.
“What do they say about the drone strike?” Ice asked, slightly perturbed. “Because you’d have to be a fool to walk this size of crowd out into the open.”
Ice’s point hit home, but only because he drove it in with the proverbial sledgehammer. Héctor realized this, took a deep breath, then scanned all the frightened faces now looking to him for answers.
Why was the coyote skimping on the details?
What was he hiding?
Isadoro’s curiosity peaked. Now he wondered if the ambiguous statements had anything to do with him specifically. He’d agreed to pay Héctor a lot of money for transport, and for the privilege to kill a man and his wife and take their child. Did the coyote still want that money? Was he now strategizing on the fly?
“You are not an uninformed man,” Eliana said, perhaps trying to appeal to Héctor’s ego. “So perhaps you could spare us your dramatic silence and just give us an honest answer.”
Narrowing his eyes even further, officially backed into a corner, the coyote finally said, “They say Hwy 45 leading through the port of entry onto the 110 is full of dead cars, dead people and buildings that are still burning. Full sections of the bridges, both coming and going, have been bombed.”
The collective gasp was nearly overwhelming. A couple of the parents covered their children’s ears in response, but it was already too late.
“How?” someone asked.
“I already said it was the drone strike,” Héctor said with a dismissive wave.
“Is America under attack?” Jose’s wife asked.
“Jose, put a muzzle on her, please,” Héctor barked. Neck red and eyes hot, the coyote said, “This is why I do not tell you the dangers of our journey!”
“We have the right to know,” someone said almost like they couldn’t help themselves.
“No you do NOT!”
“Calm down,” Ice warned, putting out his hands in a calming gesture. “You’re scaring the children. And you know as well as anyone here that people are at their worst when they’re scared.”
Looking at Eliana, Héctor said, “Are you happy now that you’ve scared everyone? Huh, you filthy dog?”
“Hold your tongue, pendejo,” Ice warned Héctor.